The Cherry On Top
by InitialLuv
Summary: Hardcastle needs to intercept McCormick's impulse issues. Epilogue for the Christmas-themed episode "Hate the Picture. . .Love the Frame."


_**Author's Note:**_ This is an epilogue of sorts to 1984's Christmas episode, "Hate the Picture . . . Love the Frame." Near the end of the episode, Hardcastle gifts McCormick with a snappy sport bike (which had earlier been stolen from under the Christmas tree in the den). While we do see McCormick riding motorcycles in the series – the scenes that come to mind are from "Something's Going On On This Train" and "The Career Breaker" – we never see nor hear of the Honda again. Of course, we never again see Hardcastle on his dirt bike after "Man in a Glass House," either.

 **-ck**

 _Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, **not** for profit._

* * *

 **THE CHERRY ON TOP**

 **by IntialLuv**

He'd kept the card, for two reasons.

The first reason was the fact that Hardcastle had directed him to "always wear a helmet" – as if the old coot didn't remember he used to be a professional race car driver. If it wasn't for the absence of the aforementioned helmet, McCormick would have pestered the judge to let him ride the bike back to Gulls' Way. But even if he'd had a helmet, Mark knew Hardcase Hardcastle would have countered with a condition: no trips on the bike until he'd made a trip to the DMV. So he'd reluctantly gotten off the motorcycle, and had shoved the card in his pocket.

McCormick didn't mention to the judge that he was fairly confident in his motorcycle skills. It wasn't like he'd never ridden a bike before. Back in Florida a few of the drivers had owned racing bikes, and he'd been able to try them out, either for a lap around the track, or some off-roading out in the boonies, when he'd wanted to be a little more daring than Flip would have allowed. He'd always worn a helmet – it was a borrowed half-shell without a visor, but a helmet, nonetheless. The feeling of the air rushing past his face was something McCormick had always loved, and something he hadn't been able to experience as much as he would've liked, crammed into a stock car and wearing a full helmet with a flameproof collar. So he'd gotten his fix by driving a convertible, or sneaking a ride on a buddy's bike. Even when riding in a car as a passenger, the first thing he'd do was roll his window down. Barbara had teased him that in a former life he must have been a dog, constantly hanging his head out of car windows to pant gaily in the breeze.

Not quite two years ago, before he'd hooked up with the judge, Mark had borrowed his friend Clint's considerably used bike for a week or so. That had been early in his parole, when he'd been without a vehicle – and without even a temporary motorcycle license. Although, knowing how Hardcastle had been breathing down his neck during that time period, the man probably already knew about that incident. Mark was just surprised the judge hadn't had a traffic cop pull him over back then.

Then again, maybe he wasn't so surprised. He'd realized long ago that Hardcastle had only been keeping an eye on him then to make sure he stayed out of trouble and out of prison. The man hadn't exactly been trying to put him back inside. There was no doubt Dalem would have considered "unlicensed use of a motor vehicle" worthy of revocation. Hardcastle had probably known that too, and so had decided to refrain from alerting the P.O. to his parolee's poor, but innocuous, choice. A guardian angel in sweats and a ball cap.

Which brought up the second reason Mark had kept the card: the signature. "Love, Santa."

As well as being an unlikely guardian angel, the judge had also been Mark's own personal Santa Claus. Generous, surprisingly jolly at times, and even more surprising – frequently kind. Hardcastle tried to hide his unexpected kindness behind bluster and harsh words, and probably had for most of his adult life. McCormick didn't know if it was a trait inherited from the senior Hardcastle, or if it had developed over time. A way for Hardcase to retain his reputation as a hard-nosed dispenser and defender of The Law, without losing his compassion.

Then there was the "Love." McCormick knew, as the term had been attributed to "Santa," that the judge wouldn't lay claim to feeling the emotion. But the words had been in Hardcastle's writing, and Mark took them to heart. Enough so that he now displayed the card proudly on his mantle in the gatehouse, and appreciated it more than the motorcycle itself.

Well, maybe not more. Maybe an equal amount. Because that bike was phenomenal.

Another thing that amazed Mark, almost as much as the "Love" on the card, was how well Hardcastle knew him. If McCormick had been in a motorcycle shop's showroom, able to pick any bike he saw, no matter the cost. . . He was pretty damn sure the Honda Interceptor was what he would have chosen: a sport bike straight off the race track, designed to eliminate drag and increase air flow – almost in the same vein as the Coyote. McCormick probably would have picked the same color scheme. _He even got the damn colors right_.

Although, McCormick was kind of an open book when it came to that point. His racing helmet was red, his white racing jumpsuit had red accents, and the Coyote was a brilliant firecracker red. That hadn't been a coincidence – Flip had designed the prototype for McCormick, after all. Flip himself had preferred black cars when he was racing, believing the dark color was unassuming, yet powerful. McCormick had favored red for vehicles. It was showy, it was in-your-face, and it made people take notice. Flip had liked sneaking up and surprising the pack. Mark had wanted them to know he was there.

And now he had this showy, in-your-face bike, courtesy of a hard-nosed judge who was secretly generous and kind. He just need to figure out how to store it.

It was the day after their (catered) Christmas meal. For an unprecedented third day, the judge had again slept in, foregoing their morning basketball game. McCormick didn't blame the man. Hardcastle had put on a brave front during his short incarceration: playing jailhouse advocate in the tiny library, investigating key points about his personal case, and fighting off a knife-wielding attacker – all without Tonto's help. But Mark knew better – personally, utterly, and repeatedly. He knew how mentally and physically exhausting imprisonment was. The constant stress and fear, the too-hot or too-cold conditions, the inability to relax enough to sleep soundly, the nauseating smells and disturbing sounds and unending hopelessness . . . The rotten food. So even though it was for the third day in a row, Mark hadn't been particularly surprised to not hear a basketball slamming into the backboard outside his bedroom window at dawn. He also hadn't particularly minded. Only this morning it hadn't been because he'd wanted to sleep in as well. It was because he'd had another activity in mind.

McCormick threw on a ragged pair of jeans and a stained tee-shirt, then grabbed a package of strawberry Pop-Tarts from the tiny pantry in the kitchenette. He munched one pastry as he left the gatehouse and crossed the lawn, and was finishing the second by the time he reached the main house's back entrance. Yet instead of entering the house through the kitchen door, he went straight to the garage. Unlocking the hasp, he lifted the wide door and rolled it up on its tracks.

The Honda stood there in all of its glory, nestled precariously close between the Corvette and the recently reacquired Coyote. It was where the bike had been placed when the cops had dropped it off two days ago, and McCormick had cringed every time he'd parked the Coyote inside, creeping his beloved car up carefully next to his new ride. He'd bemoaned the way the four vehicles were crammed into such a cluttered space (for Hardcastle's dirt bike was also in the garage, parked behind the cars), and had decided that cleaning and rearranging was an immediate necessity. But "immediate" had been delayed. First he and the judge had to meet Giles at the police station, to give the lieutenant their official statements entailing their roles in the capture of Cherney and Granger. That had led to sharing overdue holiday greetings with everyone at the station, from the detectives to the beat cops to the clerks in the mailroom. By the time the men had made it home dusk had fallen, and both had been tired and hungry. Then yesterday had been their belated Christmas, with the fancy meal, Hardcastle's reception of McCormick's unorthodox gift, and a general feeling of lazy, relaxed contentment. But now it was a new day, and it was time to go to work. Mark rolled up imaginary sleeves, slapped his hands together, and started forward.

Mark drove the Coyote a short way out of the garage, and rolled out both bikes. He was still leery of driving the Corvette without permission, even to move it just a few feet, so he left the judge's convertible where it was parked. But even with the 'Vette still in the garage, the absence of the other vehicles allowed him more than enough access for cleaning. He began to attack the shelves, the workbench, and the myriad of things shoved into corners or resting against walls. Larger items were moved up into the rafters for storage, broken items or empty cans and containers were tossed into a trash bag, and "unnecessary" objects were thrown into a garbage can just to get them out of the way. When the garbage can became full he carted it out to the shed, hoping to find a place to store everything out there. That involved moving and repositioning the lawnmower, the wheelbarrow, the rakes and the loppers, and soon he was so preoccupied with his work that he lost track of time. He sang and hummed select songs to himself as he worked, varying between "Born to be Wild," "Roll Me Away," and "Born to Run."

It was heading on toward lunch before Mark finally felt relatively happy with his efforts. Even after moving Hardcastle's dirt bike back into the rear of the garage there was still plenty of space, so that neither the sports cars nor the new motorcycle would have to worry about scratches or dings. The new bike was the last thing to be replaced in the garage. But as Mark grasped the handles to push the Honda forward, his eyes caught sight of the key in the ignition. It was less than a minute later when he fell victim to the same issue that was considerably responsible for his extensive prison knowledge: wanton impulsivity.

McCormick threw his leg over the bike and kicked up the stand. He opened the choke, turned the ignition key, then held the clutch lever down and pressed the magic button. As the engine roared to life, Mark was simultaneously impressed and elated with the power and the sound, and his face broke into a delighted grin. With barely a backwards glance he powered the bike down the driveway, leaning forward over the handles and pressing his knees tight against the chassis. The vibrations ran through his body and the cool air blew through his curls, and it was _wonderful_ – until he got to the end of the drive.

 _When did this driveway get so short?_

Mark glided the Honda up to the mailbox. Giving it a cursory inspection, he didn't even find a tardy Christmas card. This wasn't unexpected; the mail had been arriving later in the day during the holiday season. Returning both hands to the handles of the bike, he sped back up the driveway toward the garage. . .and toward the imposing figure of Judge Milton C. Hardcastle, who was standing just outside the open garage with arms crossed and a look that could curdle milk.

McCormick slowed the bike to a stop in front of the judge, reluctantly killing the engine. "Mail's late again," he announced, smiling nervously.

"Mmm-hmm," Hardcastle answered, his mouth barely moving and his glower intensifying.

"I just wanted to try it out."

"Without a helmet."

"I only went down the driveway." Mark was aware that his voice was approaching petulant, but it was hard to be calm and logical when he knew he was in the wrong.

Milt walked toward the stairs leading to the kitchen door. "Put it away. Then get cleaned up." He threw one last hard look at the ex-con. "I'm going out, and you're coming with me."

ooOoo

As the pickup was temporarily out of commission because of the damage it had incurred in the warehouse explosion, Hardcastle and McCormick left the estate in the Corvette. Hardcastle drove silently and Mark sat just as quietly in the passenger seat, steadily growing uneasy. The judge had yet to say where they were going, and his consistent scowl prevented the young man from asking. He mulled over his most recent transgression. As minor as he believed it to be, he knew it was magnified by his seemingly callous indifference to the proviso of the judge's gift: _Always wear a helmet._ Mark closed his eyes and shook his head dejectedly. Why did he keep finding ways to screw up and disappoint this man? This generous and kind man to whom he owed his freedom – and quite possibly, his life.

It was a little over a half hour before the two men reached their destination. Hardcastle pulled the 'Vette into the parking lot of a Cycle Gear store, then shut off the car's engine. He turned to look at McCormick, and for some unknown reason, the scowl had been replaced with a smile.

"C'mon, kiddo. Let's get the last part of your Christmas present."

McCormick returned the smile hesitantly, and followed the judge into the store. Milt went straight up to the counter but Mark trailed behind, browsing the leather jackets, chaps, and other biking apparel. He ran his hand over a light-weight jacket that felt remarkably like his racing suit, and a sudden ache of loss made him sigh softly.

"McCormick!"

Dropping his hand from the jacket, Mark moved up to the counter. The clerk was talking to the judge, and Mark just heard the words "in the back," before the man hurried off. "Be just a minute," Hardcastle murmured.

"A minute for what?"

The older man rocked back on his heels, his smile still firmly in place. "Be patient," was all he said.

The judge had spoken the truth; it was barely a minute before the clerk returned, carrying a large box. He placed in on the counter in front of Hardcastle, and gestured at the partially open flaps. "Check it out, make sure it's right," he directed. "If there's anything wrong with it we can send it back and get it fixed, no problem."

Milt slid the box over to McCormick. "Well, check it out, kid."

Feeling slightly silly and also a little excited, Mark parted the opening of the box and looked inside. With a small gasp, he pushed aside the protective wrapping and pulled out the cherry red, full face motorcycle helmet. Holding the top-of-the-line headgear reverently, he turned it around to explore it from every angle, and suddenly laughed.

"I can't believe it. You got it customized."

The clerk had been watching anxiously. "It's okay, right? They got the name right?"

Near the crest of the helmet, above the brand name, five letters showed in prominent black script: _**T-O-N-T-O.**_ Mark traced his fingers over the lettering with a feeling of awe.

"It's perfect," he answered, and felt Hardcastle clap a hand onto his shoulder. Looking around at his friend, Mark smiled at him in sincere appreciation. "This is incredible, Judge. I can't thank you enough."

Milt shrugged. "Well, you deserve it. It's not every day someone hocks their car to make sure I'm safely home for Christmas. That's pretty incredible, too."

ooOoo

Unsurprisingly, the helmet had fit perfectly. McCormick had a feeling Hardcastle had been confident that it would, especially considering he had requested the addition of the nickname before Mark had even tried on the headgear. He wondered if the judge had done some research to guarantee the perfect fit, possibly by surreptitiously examining the younger man's racing helmet.

As they left the store, Mark cradling the box with the helmet in his arms, Milt checked his watch. "Good. We still got time."

McCormick sat in the passenger seat, placing the box on his lap and again parting the lids so that he could gaze at his gift. "Yeah?" he asked absently. "Time for what?"

"Time enough to grab something for lunch, and then head to the DMV." Hardcastle got in behind the wheel, and grinned sharkily at the instantly dismayed ex-con. "You gotta get your motorcycle temps."

"Do we have to do that today?" Mark moaned.

"Don't you eventually want to get a little further than the mailbox?"

McCormick didn't answer, but he nodded sullenly.

"Good," Milt said, as he started the car. He was still grinning. "Just think – in a few days, you could be going as far as the post office."

 ** _END_**

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** Maybe it's a little too "on-the-nose," but I think it would have been wholly appropriate for Hardcastle to give McCormick an Indian brand motorcycle. :)

- **ck**


End file.
